(no subject)
Fuck it.
Marinating in depression for two days was fun. Now I'm done. It's good to be home.
Whatever happens next, I've got three months here. So get me out of my basement. Open invitation. It doesn't matter where, who, when, or what - if I can get there, I'll see you.
What follows is an unjust, unqualified, personal attack on certain faculty members who made my life hell these past three months. It is rude, entirely selfish, and written with the expressed purpose of burning bridges. True, whatever reason they had to expel me was more than likely my own fault. True, that is their job. And true, any reasonably fair-minded individual should not let any objections to the content of their character determine my opinion of their decision.
But I am no longer in the mood for reason or fair-mindedness. I've taken their shit for a year with nothing but an accepting grin and an eager "Please, sir, I want some more!". Really. No private livejournal posts, no letters written, no objections voiced, nothing but a couple of bitch sessions to my dormmates. I jumped through each and every hoop they set, and if I didn't make it through all of them cleanly, I still deserve a fucking Tony award for the performance I gave. Reason says that I should be back there with honors next year. But reason didn't play a part in that decision, now did it, you INSUFFERABLE FUCKWITS?
So here's what I kick myself every day for not saying. Enjoy. It's currently 3 am, so it's not done yet, and you really shouldn't take any of this seriously. Consider this therapy for me, and enjoy my heartless cruelty towards middle-aged women. I'll finish it tomorrow, probably.
A heartfelt "get fucked" to the administration of Walnut Hill School, 12 Highland Street, Natick, MA 01760. After mulling it over and considering several options, I'll forgo both forgiveness and arson, and instead just heartily wish cancer on you. Especially Melinda Cassel, Ellen Sears, and Eve Berman. The fact that you three creatures-who-I'll-charitably-call-women still draw breath each morning is proof enough for me that God has long since fucked off to greener pastures with a celestial concubine on each arm.
Now each of you more specifically, because covering all three of you with a blanket epithet does your individual perversions a great disservice. You ladies are each deserving of individual examination, criticism, and accolades, like a brilliantly sparkling diamond. Made of human feces and pure hatred.
To Mrs. Cassel -
I'll just preface this with a friendly fashion tip - please, cease wearing miniskirts and/or high heels. For the sake of the children. Because, not to be harsh or anything, beauty is in the eye of the beholder and that, but legs like yours were never meant to be seen under natural light. Or, really, any light. Even in pitch darkness, they're still a little iffy. I mean, your husband's gotta be hammered blind every night to have to deal with those meathocks walking around in the same house -
Sorry. I had to vomit at that image. Resume!
In all seriousness, where do I start with you? I mean, your incompetence as an administrator, failure at basic human decency, physical resemblance to the shit I took this afternoon, inbred retard hellspawn of a child, utter absence of control over said abomination, flaunting of your own rules, lack of any discernible justification for your father not pulling out early, what?
Suffice it to say that you almost single-handedly ruined my life. I say almost because no matter what fresh hell you threw me into, I always remembered that I am seventeen years old - not even an adult yet, with a full life of boundless possibility to live. And you? You're forty-two (though I guessed fifty-one for most of the school year) and menopausal, right on the cusp of obsolescense and what do you have to show for it? A student body that despises you. A faculty that hates you even more. A reputation for cruelty, negativity, and almost Orwellian oppression. A child who may be retarded, but in all likelihood is just the product of your failure as a parent. A husband who cheats on you. And a wardrobe of clothing made for someone much, much, much prettier than you, bought in vain hope of retaining your youthful... well, competence, I guess. I doubt you were ever attractive, really, but probably at least unnoticeable.
And Winfield Ford, if you're reading this for some ungodly reason, you bald-headed, supercilious, holier-but-more-importantly-bigger-than-thou spurt of human waste motherfucker - I put sugar in your gas tank and keyed your car, fatshit. Also, I fucked your dad. And your wife's a gigantic bitch.
Marinating in depression for two days was fun. Now I'm done. It's good to be home.
Whatever happens next, I've got three months here. So get me out of my basement. Open invitation. It doesn't matter where, who, when, or what - if I can get there, I'll see you.
What follows is an unjust, unqualified, personal attack on certain faculty members who made my life hell these past three months. It is rude, entirely selfish, and written with the expressed purpose of burning bridges. True, whatever reason they had to expel me was more than likely my own fault. True, that is their job. And true, any reasonably fair-minded individual should not let any objections to the content of their character determine my opinion of their decision.
But I am no longer in the mood for reason or fair-mindedness. I've taken their shit for a year with nothing but an accepting grin and an eager "Please, sir, I want some more!". Really. No private livejournal posts, no letters written, no objections voiced, nothing but a couple of bitch sessions to my dormmates. I jumped through each and every hoop they set, and if I didn't make it through all of them cleanly, I still deserve a fucking Tony award for the performance I gave. Reason says that I should be back there with honors next year. But reason didn't play a part in that decision, now did it, you INSUFFERABLE FUCKWITS?
So here's what I kick myself every day for not saying. Enjoy. It's currently 3 am, so it's not done yet, and you really shouldn't take any of this seriously. Consider this therapy for me, and enjoy my heartless cruelty towards middle-aged women. I'll finish it tomorrow, probably.
A heartfelt "get fucked" to the administration of Walnut Hill School, 12 Highland Street, Natick, MA 01760. After mulling it over and considering several options, I'll forgo both forgiveness and arson, and instead just heartily wish cancer on you. Especially Melinda Cassel, Ellen Sears, and Eve Berman. The fact that you three creatures-who-I'll-charitably-call-women still draw breath each morning is proof enough for me that God has long since fucked off to greener pastures with a celestial concubine on each arm.
Now each of you more specifically, because covering all three of you with a blanket epithet does your individual perversions a great disservice. You ladies are each deserving of individual examination, criticism, and accolades, like a brilliantly sparkling diamond. Made of human feces and pure hatred.
To Mrs. Cassel -
I'll just preface this with a friendly fashion tip - please, cease wearing miniskirts and/or high heels. For the sake of the children. Because, not to be harsh or anything, beauty is in the eye of the beholder and that, but legs like yours were never meant to be seen under natural light. Or, really, any light. Even in pitch darkness, they're still a little iffy. I mean, your husband's gotta be hammered blind every night to have to deal with those meathocks walking around in the same house -
Sorry. I had to vomit at that image. Resume!
In all seriousness, where do I start with you? I mean, your incompetence as an administrator, failure at basic human decency, physical resemblance to the shit I took this afternoon, inbred retard hellspawn of a child, utter absence of control over said abomination, flaunting of your own rules, lack of any discernible justification for your father not pulling out early, what?
Suffice it to say that you almost single-handedly ruined my life. I say almost because no matter what fresh hell you threw me into, I always remembered that I am seventeen years old - not even an adult yet, with a full life of boundless possibility to live. And you? You're forty-two (though I guessed fifty-one for most of the school year) and menopausal, right on the cusp of obsolescense and what do you have to show for it? A student body that despises you. A faculty that hates you even more. A reputation for cruelty, negativity, and almost Orwellian oppression. A child who may be retarded, but in all likelihood is just the product of your failure as a parent. A husband who cheats on you. And a wardrobe of clothing made for someone much, much, much prettier than you, bought in vain hope of retaining your youthful... well, competence, I guess. I doubt you were ever attractive, really, but probably at least unnoticeable.
And Winfield Ford, if you're reading this for some ungodly reason, you bald-headed, supercilious, holier-but-more-importantly-bigger-than-thou spurt of human waste motherfucker - I put sugar in your gas tank and keyed your car, fatshit. Also, I fucked your dad. And your wife's a gigantic bitch.